An Ever Fixed Mark
by prettytiedup23
Summary: Harry is determined to discover the identity of his Half-Blood Prince, but when he does, he finds that he's just as obsessed with the man as he ever was with his text book.
1. Chapter 1

An Ever-Fixed Mark

Pairing: Snarry

Rating: MA

Summary: Harry is determined to discover the identity of his Half-Blood Prince. 1st person, Harry's POV.

Authors Note: A huge, heart felt thank you to Serpenscript, Plot doctor! I couldn't have done it without her support.

Disclaimer: The characters within are not mine and I am not making any money from this.

**A Ever-Fixed mark**

By: Kitty

Nothing good ever happens at two in the morning. There are no greats feats achieved, no perfect ideas concocted and certainly no irrefutable revelations illuminated past one fifty-nine AM. I know all this and yet I find myself weirdly awake, blinking myopically at The Half-Blood Prince's copy of _Advanced Potion-Making. _

There is nothing beautiful about the battered book lying innocently on the desk in front of me. The cover is old and dirty and the pages are dog-eared and stained in strange places but for some reason it simply radiates a magnetic frequency attuned solely to me. Everywhere I go, I can feel the solid weight emanating heat inside my bag, distracting me from each conversation and pleading for me to open the cover and peruse its captivating pages. The margins call to me, singing sweetly of their secrets written in neat, spindly handwriting and I yearn to obey; to run my fingers along the words and feel the indentations carved into the paper by a sharp quill, smell the deep, spicy scent still clinging to the care-worn pages. The obsession runs deep, surging through my veins and curling like thick smoke into each thought and yet I don't want to resist the clarion call. I don't want to be free.

The mystery is enchanting, I admit it. Who is The Half-Blood Prince? Is he still alive, making potions somewhere where everyone appreciates his talent? When did he go to Hogwarts? Did he know my parents? Why would he leave his Potions book lying around in some dusty old cabinet? Would he care that someone else is using his old book? Why type of person was he? Was he involved in the first war against Voldemort? If he was, what side did he choose? Do I know him? Have I passed him in Diagon Alley or these very halls, dreadfully ignorant of the person walking behind me? I think that would be the very worst. Having him so near, close enough to talk to or get a butterbeer with on Hogsmeade weekends and not know it. Somehow, The Prince has become my friend and I am desperate to find him.

_Ding. Ding. Ding._

The large grandfather clock chimes another wasted hour that I should have been sleeping for instead of staring morosely at a ratty, old book. I cringe at my own wording and realize how tired I am; I would never insult the prince otherwise. I feel an absurd need to apologize to the book for calling it ratty but with an impressive display of restraint, I stay quiet and only stroke the spine in regret.

"Bloody hell, are you still up, mate?" Ron grumbles fuzzily from the stairs. His voice is still gooey with sleep and his eyes are only tiny slits on his pillow-creased face.

"Yeah, couldn't sleep. I'll be up in a bit," I say softly, watching in amusement as he bobbles in agreement and heaves himself back up the stairs.

I know that he thinks I'm just preoccupied with the information I learned with Dumbledore tonight and I am quite happy to let him continue thinking that. I just can't handle them both looking at me with pitying eyes as they try to convince me that my obsession is unhealthy. Or rather Hermione tries to convince me that my obsession is unhealthy and Ron sits there with a blank expression.

There's nothing unhealthy about reading a book, as Hermione should rightly know. She would want to know who The Prince was if it was her Potions book. As it is, she's just put off because The Prince is better at potions than she is. She always hates being outdone.

Merlin, I need to stop thinking about these things and get up to bed before I am completely unable to get up for class tomorrow. Well, I guess I knew that I would never solve the great mystery tonight. It's not as though I actually thought I would discover the identity of The Half-Blood Prince, find his address and then go skipping off to have a night cap with him. I knew that nothing good ever happens after two AM but knowing doesn't stop the stab of disappointment that I feel as I pack the book away under my mattress for safe keeping and slip under the covers.

I yawn deeply, snuggling tightly into a ball and just as the muzzy softness of sleep claims me, I find the energy to whisper softly into my pillow.

"Goodnight My Prince."

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"Do you reckon Professor Flitwick will assign a lot of homework this weekend? I really think we've gotten off easy this week and I just know that someone is going to dump a huge research project on us and force everyone to stay in the castle tomorrow," Hermione frets, wringing her hands together anxiously.

"Easy? You think this week was easy?" Ron exclaimed, gesticulating wildly, and looking at Hermione as though she has just told us that she plans to marry Voldemort.

"Well, perhaps easy was the wrong word. But we haven't had nearly the workload that I expected this year and I suppose its just making me nervous," she clarifies, flicking her hair off her face in one, irritated jerk.

"Perhaps it would be better to be grateful we aren't stuck inside at all hours doing research projects and such," Ron grumbles.

"If anyone is going to give us a ton of homework, it's going to be Snape. The sadistic bastard," I grouch through a large yawn, flattening my fringe over the stupid scar that permanently decorates my forehead.

"I bet you're right, mate. It would be just like him to make sure that everyone is just as miserable as he is," Ron agrees loudly, bouncing as he walks.

"What makes you think he's miserable? He finally got the job he always wanted, he gets to torture all the Gryffindors he wants and Dumbledore is gone often enough that he doesn't have to answer for anything he does. I bet he's downright giddy," I say gloomily, readjusting the shoulder strap on my bag.

"Oh for Merlin's sake, would you two stop talking about Snape? I don't think it would kill you to leave off him for one day," Hermione barks, pushing past us and waltzing into the Charms classroom.

"I think it might," Ron mumbles, following after her. I snicker softly, making my way to my seat and settling in for a rather dull lecture about Warding Charms.

As Professor Flitwick stumbles through an exhausting two hour lecture, I can feel my fingers twitch towards my bag on the empty seat next to me. The singing has started again, whispering and cooing seductively, waiting for my control to snap.

I don't care about hearth stones or grounding components, and I certainly don't care about the angst-ridden drama Ron and Hermione have begun. I just want to be five floors below, swathed in the dank, chilled Potions classroom, inhaling Merlin-knows-what, where I can touch my book again; to feel its crinkled pages caress my fingertips and see the adored comments again.

I feel connected to him when I sit in the sturdy, scratched tables where every student for countless decades has sat. Any of the stains and marks on the black surface could have come from his cauldron, his silver blade. I wonder sometimes where he sat; if I would be able to tell just by touching a smudge that it came from him, that this was a tiny piece of him left over for me to find.

"Harry? Are you alright? Class is over, Harry," Hermione prods quietly, sticking me in the ribs with the edge of a book.

"Oh. Right, sorry. Miles away," I shrug, packing up as fast as I can without drawing attention to myself and shuffling out the door after an impatient Hermione.

"Did you catch even half of that lecture?" She gripes, smoothing out her already immaculate robes and tucking a few stray hairs back into place.

"If I said no, will I get smacked?" I hedge.

"No. I know you have a lot on your plate right now… but don't even think that will excuse you forever. Sooner or later, a teacher is going to notice your vacant expression and take points – and then where will you be?" She says in exasperation. I don't even begin to open my mouth to retort. I don't have a death wish today.

"Oi! Where did Ron go?" I say with a start, glancing around in confusion.

"He left as soon as Flitwick excused us. Something about running to grab something from the common room," she mumbles distractedly.

"Oh. Do you reckon we'd better head down to the dungeons before Slughorn notices we're late?" I ask, frowning slightly at the thought of leaving my best mate back in the common room.

Hermione scoffs and nods, acting for all the world as if her answer should have been universally accepted and we trek down the stairs to the dungeons in awkward silence. I do so wish Ron and 'Mione would just get over all this hostility and snog already.

The air grows colder the further down the stairs we progress and I can feel the chill creeping into my bones with each step. Slughorn's classroom looms up from around one of the many twists in the corridor and I have never been so happy to see potions class before.

Hermione and I make our way quietly down the rows of desks until we reach the middle row and slide into the Gryffindor side. Ron isn't here to cramp the desk, so Hermione and I spread out our things and set up the supplies for the day. According to the syllabus we were given on the first day of class, today we'll be working on the practical procedure for creating Antidotes.

Slughorn stands from behind his desk, clapping his hands and talking rather excitedly. "Settle down now, settle down, please! We have a lot to do today, so we had better get moving. Golpalott's Third Law…who can tell me —? But Miss Granger can, of course!"

Hermione recites at top speed: "Golpalott's-Third-Law- states-that-the-antidote-for-a-blended-poison-will-be-equal-to-more-than-the-sum-of-the-antidotes-for-each-of-the-separate- components."

"Precisely!" Slughorn beams. "Ten points for Gryffindor! Now, if we accept Golpalott's Third Law as true…"

I am just going to have to take Slughorn's word for it that Golpalott's Third Law is true, because I didn't understood any of it. Nobody apart from Hermione seems to be following what Slughorn says next, either.

"…which means, of course, that assuming we have achieved correct identification of the potion's ingredients by Scarpin's Revelaspell, our primary aim is not the relatively simple one of selecting antidotes to those ingredients in and of themselves, but to find that added component which will, by an almost alchemical process, transform these disparate elements —"

Ron had snuck in while Slughorn was speaking and was now staring with an open mouth at the professor. Hermione shot him a rather smug look, as though to say 'That's what you get for being late'. He looked at me with a rather pleading expression, but all I could do was shrug hopelessly at him.

"…and so," Slughorn finishes, "I want each of you to come and take one of these phials from my desk. You are to create an antidote for the poison within it before the end of the lesson. Good luck, and don't forget your protective gloves!"

Hermione shot out of her stool and was halfway towards Slughorn's desk before the rest of the class had realized it was time to move, and by the time Ron and I returned to the table, she had already tipped the contents of her phial into her cauldron and was kindling a fire underneath it.

"It's a shame that the Prince won't be able to help you much with this, Harry," she says brightly as she straightens up. "You have to understand the principles involved this time. No short cuts or cheats!"

Annoyed, I uncork the poison I grabbed from Slughorn's desk, which was a garish shade of pink, tip it into my cauldron and light a fire underneath it. Alright, now I don't have the faintest idea what I am supposed to do next. I glance at Ron, who was now standing there looking rather gormless, having copied everything I did.

"_Does_ the Prince have anything to say?" Ron whispers, looking hopeful at the prospect that he might be bailed out.

"Don't know, let me look," I whisper back, reaching for the book resting lightly on the end of the table.

Letting my fingers separate the pages gently, I quickly find the chapter on Antidotes. There, written in the familiar hand, was Golpalott's Third Law, stated exactly as Hermione had recited it, but not a single illuminating note to explain it. Apparently, the Prince, like Hermione, had no trouble understanding it.

"Nothing," I say gloomily, leaving the book open on the Antidote page just to see the scrawl at the top.

It took me only five minutes to realize that my reputation as the best potion-maker in the class was crashing around my ears. Slughorn had peered hopefully into my cauldron on his first circuit of the dungeon, preparing to exclaim in delight as he usually did, and instead had withdrawn his head hastily, coughing, as the smell of bad eggs overwhelmed him.

Hermione's expression could not have been any smugger; she loathed being out-performed in every Potions class. She was now decanting the mysteriously separated ingredients of her poison into ten different crystal phials. More to avoid watching this irritating sight than anything else, I bent over the Half-Blood Prince's book and turned a few pages with unnecessary force.

And there it was, spread across the bottom of the long list of antidotes.

_Just shove a bezoar down their throats._

My eyes are riveted to the words, staring at them for a long moment. Hadn't I once, long ago, heard about bezoars? Hadn't Snape mentioned them in our first ever Potions lesson? '_A stone taken from the stomach of a goat, which will protect from most poisons_.'

"Two minutes left, everyone!" Slughorn bellows, snapping me out of my daze.

I spring into action and walk as fast as I can towards the supply closet. Pushing aside unicorn hair and tangled dried herbs until, at last, I see a small card box with the word _Bezoars_ written on top. Inside, there were a dozen small, dried brown things that resembled kidneys more than actual stones. I grabbed one and shoved the box back into place.

I hurry back to my desk and just manage to sit down before Slughorn announces that our time is up. He begins making his way down the rows, peaking into cauldrons and making comments as he goes. Nobody has managed to finish the task, although Hermione was attempting to cram in a few more ingredients into her bottle before Slughorn reached her. Ron had given up entirely and was now mostly trying to not inhale the putrid fumes billowing from his cauldron. Secretly hoping that Ron's potion is so bad that Slughorn will simply forget to even check mine, I sit as quietly as I can with the bezoar clutched in my sweaty palm, trying not to hyperventilate.

Professor Slughorn reached our table at last. Passing over Ron's cauldron with a grimace and moved on very quickly.

"And you Harry? What do you have to show me?" he asked, waddling his way to my cauldron.

I gulp and hold out my hand, palm up, with the bezoar sitting heavily in the centre. Slughorn looked down at it for a whole ten seconds. I can't help wondering, for a brief moment, whether or not he was going to shout at me. Then, as I was starting to sweat harder, he threw his head back and laughed.

"You've got nerve, boy!" He booms, taking to bezoar from my hand and holding it up for the class to see. "Oh, you're like your mother…well, I can't fault you…a bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions!"

Hermione, who was sweaty-faced and had soot on her nose, looks livid. Her half-finished antidote, comprising fifty-two ingredients including a chunk of her own hair, bubbled sluggishly behind Slughorn, who had eyes for nobody but me.

"And you thought of a bezoar all by yourself, did you, Harry?" she asks through gritted teeth.

"That's the individual spirit a real potion-maker needs!" says Slughorn happily, before I could reply. "Just like his mother, she had the same intuitive grasp of potion-making, it's undoubtedly from Lily he gets it…yes, Harry, yes, if you've got a bezoar on hand, of course that would do the trick…although as they don't work on everything, and are pretty rare, it's still worth knowing how to mix antidotes…"

The only person in the room looking angrier than Hermione was Malfoy, who, I was happy to see, has spilled something that looked like cat sick all over himself. Before either of them could express their fury that I managed to come top of the class by not doing any work, however, the bell rang.

"Time to pack up!" says Slughorn. "And an extra ten points to Gryffindor for sheer cheek!" Still chuckling, he waddles back to his desk at the front of the classroom.

Ron looked at me pointedly, but I shake my head at him, already packing up my supplies and shoving my trusty copy of _Advanced Potion-Making _into the inside pocket of my robes. I'll be pouring over the pages for the rest of the night, trying to read every little comment I possibly can before I pass out from exhaustion. I can't believe I haven't made this goal before now, but I guarantee that I won't be missing any more opportunities to know my prince better.

When we reached the common room, Hermione went off to work alone on her Ancient Runes homework while Ron sulked on the large couch facing the fireplace. I imagine that he is mostly upset that I didn't manage to slip him a bezoar too. Oh well, he'll be fine by tomorrow… and if he's not, then I'll just sort him out.

Climbing up the stairs to the dorm, I gently lift the Half-Blood Prince's book out of my pocket and smooth my hand over the cover in anticipation. I rip my school robe off, kick out of my shoes and bounce onto my bed and close the curtains. Reclining on my stomach, I open the new cover and run my fingertips over the well-loved identity. _This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince. _

Flipping past the introduction (which has no notes in the margins), I read the little comments attached to The Draught of Living Death. Although interesting, I have no real interest to the little corrections to existing potions that I am sure he spent a lot of time working on. The things I'm most interested in are the little comments and remarks written on blank spaces between chapters, at the top of the pages, and squeezed in the margins. Each little message I read, feeds the fire of obsession growing inside me. I can feel it surging and panting inside my chest with each word.

At the bottom of the page dedicated to poisonous mushrooms, there is one line written in overly large writing, traced over and over again until the words were bolded, notated with spirals and curls surrounding it. _**Only the dead see the end of war**__._

Only the dead see the end of war…

Only the dead.

I turn the page quickly in order to banish the compulsion to linger over the words until morning. There are more corrections on the next page, indicating that one should add a sprig of peppermint to the Elixir to Induce Euphoria to counter the ill effects.

"Harry! It's almost dinner. Are you coming down?" Ron asks shortly.

"Oh. Yeah, 'course," I reply, pushing the Princes book under my mattress and shoving aside the curtains and clamoring out of bed.

"What are you doing in there?" he asks, obviously extending an olive branch.

I took it gratefully.

"Just looking over some notes," I say. It's not as if I lied, I really was looking over some notes… just not my own notes.

"That's boring. Your starting to act like 'Mione," he laughs, trudging down the stairs and out the portrait hole to dinner.

Hermione was still acting snobbish, and Ron was too busy eating to distract me from my thoughts. For some reason, I keep seeing the embellished sentence scrolling over and over again in my mind. It seems so… familiar. No, familiar isn't the right word… Its like Deja Vous, I know I've never heard it before and yet some part of me has. A part of me, the part that niggles at my brain, embraces this sentence.

The shepherd's pie is bland and the conversation is positively dead so I slowly stand from the bench and make my way out of the Great Hall as inconspicuously as possible. The halls are pleasantly empty and I make it to the dorm room without talking to a single person.

I detour to the loo, washing up and changing into my pyjama bottoms before plopping back onto my bed. Reaching around, I dig the Prince's book out from under the mattress and recline into the pillows. My eyes close without my express permission and I rest the book on my stomach. Stroking the spine absentmindedly, I allow myself to catch up on some much needed rest.

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The hallways are clear of students, there are only shadows here to keep me company. They bend and twist wickedly, forming shapes before disintegrating randomly. A breeze curls in from an open window, changing the shadows and forcing them to group together oddly. They grow, towering over me before crashing down into the shape of a man. I can't see his face, everything is shadows now. At its feet lies a battered, stained copy of _Advanced Potion-Making, _making a base for the thing to balance he speaks, his voice is velvet arched over steel and I yearn to wrap myself around it and never crawl out again.

"Let's match the power of Lord Voldemort, Heir of Salazar Slytherin, against the famous Harry Potter." The voice hisses, making my hair stand on end. The voice doesn't fit the words; that beautiful voice spitting out Tom Riddle's words.

The shadow shifts again, growing shorter and somehow managing to look scruffy.

"You are not weak, Harry. You have nothing to be ashamed of." It says, this time soothingly but the voice is still wrong. I know this voice… somehow, somewhere outside of here. This voice does not belong to Remus Lupin.

The shadow grows again, growing taller than any of the other forms, widening strangely.

"What's comin' will come, an' we'll meet it when it does." It chortles, adding an odd accent to the rolling voice. It doesn't fit at all. I think I would have known if Hagrid had a voice like that; Its so very wrong that the oddity makes me look away from the faceless shadow.

It shits again, shrinking and tapering off into a relatively tall, slim figure. The Prince's book at its feet flutters and tips eagerly.

"Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and allow themselves to be provoked easily – weak people, in other words – they stand no chance against his powers! He will penetrate your mind with absurd ease, Potter." The shadow purrs darkly, perfectly at ease with its voice. A sudden flash of obsidian eyes set into a pale face and the shadow shudders violently before sweeping into the Prince's book.

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The blankets are tangled around my legs, sweat is dripping down my face and I can't seem to stop shaking. The brief flicker of pitch black eyes seems to be branded into the back of my eyelids. The image is stuck, replaying over and over again in a sick repetition, like a broken muggle record player.

There was something there, just out of reach, which I know would explain everything… if I could only remember the entire dream. I recall something about Remus and Hagrid talking in an abnormal voice, something about dark, molten eyes glinting inside a pallid face… and Voldemort! Of course! The dream was so very bizarre that it must have come from Voldemort. My scar doesn't hurt, but that doesn't mean that the Dark Lord didn't penetrate my mind again. I best go to Dumbledore.

The decision made, I slide out of bed and dig my invisibility cloak out from my trunk. Once the cloak is secured around me, I ghost down the stairs and out the portrait hole without any kafuffle at all.

Reaching the gargoyle that guards Dumbledore's office with incredible ease, I recite the password (Acid Pops) but the statue remains immobile. Several attempts later, and I move on to hitting and kicking at the figure savagely, sweating even worse than before. Yet, no matter how hard I assault the guardian, it refuses move aside in the slightest.

"Ah, Mr. Potter. Out for another midnight stroll, are we?" A smug voice drawls, issuing, it seems, from the shadows themselves. An unpleasant roll of my stomach, followed by the irrational urge to flee as quickly as I can back to bed, accompanies my sharp inhalation before I master myself.

Calm down, for Merlin's sake. No matter how close to the dream this situation seems, this is absolutely not a shape-shifting shadow determined to show me every known Half-Blood in my immediate acquaintance. The castle is warded; no Death Eaters could possibly enter the grounds with them in place without setting off a multitude of alarms and fail-safes.

"I need to see the Headmaster," I declare, tilting my chin up proudly, managing to cover the shaking of my voice with an impressive bravado.

I get the feeling of keen eyes running over my face, but the person is still shrouded in darkness. The person – man – 'hmms' softly before sweeping out from the blackened corner. Oh, of course. I don't know how I could have missed it. Professor Snape, cloak whirling about his ankles, stands before me looking rather… concerned. No, it couldn't be concern – maybe he just got a piece of bad meat at dinner.

"What is it, Potter? Is it your scar?" Snape barks urgently, striding forward and gripping my chin in his cool, thin fingers and lowering his head to look directly in my eyes.

"I don't know. I think it might be something like before. That's why I need to see Dumbledore," I reply earnestly. Don't be rude, just be as polite as possible and maybe he wont take points for being out after curfew.

"_Professor _Dumbledore is away from the castle at the moment. You'll have to come with me. Now," he says, emphasizing the word Professor greatly and pulling me along behind him by my arm when I didn't move fast enough for his liking.

"I can walk on my own, you know," I mumble churlishly.

"Be silent and hurry up," he snaps, glowering over his shoulder at me.

"Yes, sir," I reply with poor grace, quickening my footsteps to keep up with his long stride. Sometimes, being short really blows.

The staircases seem to cooperate with the snarky git, and we descend towards his office quicker than I expected. The great oak door snicks shut behind me as Snape whirls around on the spot and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Well, what did you see?" he demands sharply, locking his unbearably dark gaze on my own.

"There was a huge shadow that… shifted into people I know and said things in a weird voice. Voldemort was there, he was saying something about matching skills with me like he did in the Chamber of Secrets in second year. It was just bizarre, and I woke up all… disoriented. I don't know, I thought it might be important," I stutter out, totally unable to piece together more than that.

Professor Snape blinks once and then rolls his eyes dramatically. Arching one thin brow, he says sharply, "Yes, and?"

"Well it wasn't just that, I mean it was… I can't actually remember a whole lot of it at this exact moment, but I'm telling you it was so strange, it has to be from Vol- …er… You-Know-Who," I explain, gently amending Voldemort's name at his pointedly narrowed eyes.

"Oh for Merlin's sake, Potter! Its one thirty in the morning, and we both have class at eight. Either spit out something of importance or go back to your dormitory immediately," he snarls, looking angrier and angrier the longer it takes me to form a coherent response.

"I… _cant_! It's too fuzzy now. But Professor – " I begin only to be seized by a wonderful (or intolerable) idea. In response, Snape raises both eyebrows. "Well, surely, you can just look!"

"Look?" he drawls, clearly shocked by my suggestion.

"You know as well as I do that I'm pants at Occlumency. You could just pop in and have a peek and get a much more accurate recount," I say triumphantly.

"You are inviting me to pillage your mind in order to find out what exactly your dream was about?" Snape asks slowly, looking angry again although I have no idea why.

"Yes," I say firmly.

"Are you _completely out of your mind, _Potter? You never invite someone to use Legilimency on you! _Ever!_ Do you understand me?" He hisses, so angry that his normally pallid face drained of every ounce of color and the vein in this temple begins to pulse violently.

"But –," I start awkwardly.

"NO BUTS! Did it even occur to you that I could completely rape your mind of every single thought, every single memory your stunted brain has ever processed?" He shouts, obviously outraged.

"I know you won't do those things. Just because I don't like you doesn't mean that I don't trust you," I explain slowly, as though talking to a small child. Sometimes adults can be really dense.

Snape was silent for a full twenty seconds before I really started to get nervous. Oh god, he is going to shout at me and stick me in detention for the rest of the term. Taking a chance and looking up at him through my fringe, I'm unsurprised to see him stone faced and impassive, but as our eyes meet he does the most shocking thing I have ever seen.

Professor Severus Snape throws back his head and laughs. Loudly. The sound is like rich dark chocolate, singeing the nerves of my spine pleasantly. Who knew that his laugh/voice/smile would be so… hot? Well, maybe not hot… Oh, who am I kidding? Sweet Salazar, he should smile more often! He looks ten years younger when he isn't scowling.

"That is absolutely priceless. Get over here then," he demands, still chuckling. I obey, in complete shock. Grabbing my right arm in his surprisingly gentle hold, he draws me closer, looks directly in my eyes, raises his ebony wand and says, "Legilimens."

Snape skims the memories of the last few moments, seeing my impression of his laugh and the walk to his office, yet he doesn't linger over anything, not even my seamless walk down from Gryffindor tower, stopping only when he reaches the eerie dream that had seemed so fuzzy only two seconds ago, but now unfurled gently, neatly, for him.

He replayed the dream three times before withdrawing gently. His face is still unreadable yet there seems to be a glint of humour swimming in his eyes. His lip twitches before he masters himself and then he releases me from his grip.

"I can safely say that Voldemort was not involved at all and you can be assured that there was no portent of doom within that rather melodramatic exploration of your personal confusion," he says, lip twitching again mid-rant but he smoothed out his face before I could really get a look at it.

"Oh. _Oh_. Ok then. Sorry to disturb you, Sir," I stutter, blinking rapidly and backing towards the office door.

"Potter," he says just as I reach the door, waiting until I turn around to speak again. "It was … very responsible of you to seek help tonight. You did the right thing," he forces out, looking sour.

"Thank you, sir," I reply, smiling at Professor Snape for the very first time in history before turning the handle and walking out of his office. As I walk back to Gryffindor Tower, I can't help thinking that for one split second, right before the door closed behind me, Snape might have looked… pleased.

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Author's Note: Well, here I am - back from the dead and itching for your opinion on my newest endeavor. I know, I have been terrible about updating my current stories but when the muse strikes, a writer must bend to its will. Fortunately for my beloved reader, this story is mostly written so updates will be coming rather quickly. As always, _**REVIEW**_ if you think I should continue. Please, I am desperate for some feedback and I so love hearing from you all. I hope you enjoy this - I think it might possibly be the hardest project I have ever underwent.

Oceans of Love,  
~Kitty


	2. Chapter 2

An Ever-Fixed Mark

Pairing: Snarry

Rating: MA

Summary: Harry is determined to discover the identity of his Half-Blood Prince. 1st person, Harry's POV.

Authors Note: A huge, heart felt thank you to Serpenscript, Plot doctor! I couldn't have done it without her support.

Disclaimer: The characters within are not mine and I am not making any money from this.

**A Ever-Fixed mark**

By: Kitty

Breakfast is a grisly affair with students everywhere laughing, shouting, and making an enormous racket while I sit still and attempt to stay awake. A feat which is proving to be verydifficult considering I got all of two hours of sleep before being rudely awakened by a refreshed-looking Ron bouncing on my bed.

Hermione was back to her usual… verbose self; chattering away with the Patil twins about the most effective Hair-Freezing Charm. How frustrating it is to have to listen to this nonsense while all I can think about is the small second that I actually felt that Professor Snape was pleased with a decision I made. Not to mention the completely baffling dream I had, the same dream that Snape had called 'a rather melodramatic exploration of my personal confusion'. What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?

Ok, yes I am confused about the identity of the Half-Blood Prince and that could account for every half blood in my small circle of friends being featured as a possible match for my prince. But why were they speaking with that strange…voice? The bloody voice! Of course! The voice from the dream belonged to Snape! Is that what my brain was trying to tell me? That Snape was The Half-Blood Prince? That would explain why his shadow-self was directly connected to the book in the dream… Snape is the Prince.

Wait. No, that impossible. The Half-Blood Prince cannot be Snape, My Prince cannot possibly be Severus 'The Greasy Git, Over-Grown Bat' Snape. Could he? Oh Merlin, it makes perfect sense! Just think of it; An old potions book. Brilliant if sarcastic comments scribbled in the margins. Jinxes and hexes that Hermione warned me might be dark. Snape's book.

I jerk my head up to look at the head table, past the newly returned Dumbledore who was chatting with McGonagall and Professor Sprout, and on down the row until I locate the scowling, black clad phantom of Hogwarts. There he is, looking moodier than ever, attempting to stare down his toast and porridge. He must have sensed that someone was looking at him because not a second after my eyes rested on him, he lifted his head sharply and scanned the student body until his eyes locked on me. Giving me a rather put-upon glare, he returned to glowering down at his plate. Odd.

If he is the Prince, which I am not utterly convinced that he is, then did he recognize his old text book in the dream that I allowed him to view? Probably. I sigh and look around the Gryffindor table before shoving one more piece of toast in my mouth, grab my bag from the floor and make my way towards the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. This should be very interesting.

DADA is another dull exorcise in self restraint. With Snape billowing around the classroom, looking for cheaters I expect, and the Prince's book resting heavily inside my robe pocket, the compulsion to pull out the book and see Snape's reaction is extremely difficult to resist. Only the idea of many, many detentions stills my hand.

"Mr. Potter, am I boring you? I am so very sorry to interrupt your oh so busy day with my lesson," a dark voice intones from directly behind me. Bollocks.

"No, Sir. I'm just waiting for you to come around and check my work," I say cheerfully. Probably not the best thing to say considering that I have no idea what I am supposed to be working on. Double bollocks.

"Oh, I am terribly sorry to keep you waiting. Let's have it, then, Potter. Show me your full bodied Patronus," Snape says, voice dripping with disbelief. At least he told me what I am supposed to do… even if it is not in the curriculum at all. Maybe he realizes how exhausted I am and is cutting me a break. Yeah. Right.

"Of course, Professor. _Expecto Patronum_," I incant, gathering up every happy memory I can think of, and to my utmost relief, Prongs gallops from the tip of my wand and loops the classroom before disappearing.

"Stay focused, Potter," he snarls, whirling away with a disdainful sniff. I sigh in relief and slump into my seat. Merlin, I have to stop drifting away on little daydreams or I am going to get seriously killed.

Without my express permission, my eyes follow Snape's circuit around the classroom, watching as he adjusts form and spits out instructions as he goes. For some reason, I can't seem to take my eyes off his hands as he grips Neville's wand and demonstrates the correct movement for the fifth time. Those long, potion-stained fingers curling around a wand stirs some unknown emotion inside me. How many times have I wondered about the prince writing in his text, testing his jinxes and revising the potion instructions? Are those the hands that stroked over the crinkled pages day after day? Is his the scent that still clings to the paper? The only way to find out for sure is to get him to admit to being The Half-Blood Prince… and how exactly do you get a Slytherin like Snape to admit to anything?

I do believe it's time to make a plan.

"Dismissed," Snape states dryly, strolling to his desk. I pack up as slowly as possible, waving Ron and Hermione on when they lingered with me.

"Professor, I was wondering if I might have a word." I say boldly, standing stiffly by my table instead of walking up to his desk. He flicks his wand sharply, causing the door to click shut, arm itself with a silencing charm and lock.

He nods and waves me to him, face calm and impassive.

"I'm sorry, sir." I blurt, forcing the words out before I could rethink my hastily formed plan.

"What have you done now, Potter?" Snape replies wearily, rubbing his fingers against his temples.

"I'm so sorry for looking into your pensive without your permission and I'm sorry I didn't have the courage to say so sooner," I croak, nearly hyperventilating now.

Snape is utterly silent again, looking at me with open shock. I seem to be doing that to him a lot lately. His face snaps back into its impassive mask very quickly as he stands from his seat.

"Yes, I imagine you are sorry. That doesn't excuse the fact that you did it in the first place nor does it excuse the fact that the authority I have over the students you told has been irreparably damaged," he says coldly.

"People I told? Sir, I never told a single person what I saw," I exclaim heatedly, ready to argue through the night until he believes me.

"No one? Not even Weasley and Granger?" He asks in disbelief, clearly expecting to be correct.

"No, Professor. Especially not them," I reply softly, meeting his eyes without reluctance.

"Alright, Potter. I believe you. If that is all…," he hedges, clearly attempting to get me out of his classroom.

"Sir, I'm afraid. I'm afraid that this war will never end and this will be my life until the day I die," I divulge softly, shuffling closer to him while I speak. Don't look nervous, or he'll get suspicious and you really don't want him to find out that this entire conversation is a ruse to get him to admit to being the previous owner of a book you happen to be infatuated with.

"Don't be absurd, boy. This war will end, as they all do," he sighs, looking more uncomfortable by the second. Clearly Professor Snape was not accustomed to playing councillor to Gryffindors… or anyone for that matter.

"But what about the next one and the next one? When will it end?" I plead, feeling slightly guilty for the manipulation. Well, I suppose you've got to think Slytherin in order to trap one.

"Only the dead see the end of war, Potter. It will never end whilst we are alive, as is true for everyone." He quotes, clearly desperate to stop the awkward confessions and revelations. My heart stutters in my chest before shifting into high gear.

"Thank you, Sir." I say, voice and smile wavering terribly as sweat breaks out on my face. Oh Merlin, I was right. Snape is The Half-Blood Prince. Don't panic, he'll see it and make your life miserable until you confess to something.

"Oh for – Potter, do stop looking so stricken. If you require empty words and coddling, I suggest you make an appointment with the headmaster or your Head of House. All you will get from me is hard truth, as you well know. If you didn't want to know the honest answer, you shouldn't have asked the question," he says in exasperation, clearly attempting to give comfort in his own way.

"I appreciate your honesty, Sir," I say with the last of my control. I am honestly about to have a long mental breakdown and I would rather be far away from Snape while I did it. He would never let me live it down.

"If you appreciate it so much why do you look like someone just killed your Kenzle?" Snape asks, at his wits end.

"Because it's you," I shout at last, fists clenching at my sides and I cannot possibly contain myself anymore.

"Pardon me?"

"Its you! I don't know how I could I missed it for so very long, but I did and now I know for sure and I have no idea what to do with this!" I exclaim loudly, waving my arms wildly.

"What in Salazar's name are you raving about now, Potter?" he shouts, throwing his hands up in the air. Oh Merlin! I was just about to shout at him that I knew he was The Half-Blood Prince and beg him to be my friend just like the Prince was because, damn it, he stole him from me and I want him _back! _

"Nothing. Thank you for your time," I squeak in alarm, scuttling out the door as fast as I could manage, despite the utterly bewildered shout from Snape, and tear down the halls to Transfiguration. Oh McGonagall is going to toss me straight out on my ear for this and I'll have to beg Hermione to lend me her notes. Triple bollocks.

"But what were you talking to Snape about? It's Slughorn you're supposed to talking to!" Hermione nags, shuffling her notes on the table in front of her.

"Yes, I know that, but I just had to ask him a question. It wasn't anything to be concerned about," I reply heatedly, rolling my eyes at her theatrics.

"Then why won't you tell us?" She exclaims loudly, windmilling her arms in frustration.

"Because it isn't important! Could you please just let it go? I am just asking you if you have any ideas about how to get the memory from Slughorn," I say with a sigh, terribly exhausted and only wishing for a sandwich and my nice, warm bed.

"Well, I for one think you should just go up and ask him. He adores you, Harry," Ron interjects gently, diverting the conversation away from Hermione's foul mood.

"The only problem is that if it doesn't work the first time, the whole operation would be blown," I say with a sigh, slouching down further in my seat.

"Well you won't know what will happen if you don't even try," he suggests with a small smile.

"Your right, I should just go down there and ask him to give me the memory," I declare boldly, straightening up my spine.

"You might want to go ahead and use that Felix Felicis for the conversation, though," Hermione cries after me as I race into the dorm room to put my shoes back on.

"Good idea," I reply loudly, thumping down the stairs and downing half of the golden potion before shoving the bottle into the pocket of my jeans.

"Good luck, mate," Ron shouts as I break speed around through the portrait hole and down the corridor.

Students scatter to the sides of me, my feet pounding on the stone floor as I race through the halls towards the potions classroom before Slughorn's office hours end. A few startled ghosts, many intimidated students and two disgruntled professors later and I arrive in the dungeons, standing outside Slughorn's office, breathing rapidly.

I knock and seconds later, I hear him call me in. Felix is alive inside me and I can feel the pull as though it were a live thing, yanking and grasping at my spinal chord like I was a puppet. I open the door and rush into the room as though the entire castle was on fire.

"Professor Slughorn, please! I need your help! I know that you already gave Dumbledore that memory but it's imperative that you give me the real memory right now. Voldemort is preparing an attack and we absolutely must know what you told him. Please, Sir, if you don't give me the real memory then I could die! Please," I shout, planting my hands on the desk in front of him and using every ounce of cunning I possess to attempt to pull my face into a panicked expression.

"You – I – that is I certainly – I cannot - you don't understand," he stutters, spittle flying everywhere in his fluster.

"I don't want to die, professor. I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" I bellow, sure that my face must be a garish shade of red by now.

"My boy, you have no idea what could happen to me if I should give you this memory," he whimpers meekly, bowing his head.

"I guarantee you that nothing will happen to you. I swear that I will keep the owner of the memory a secret. Please, sir, I need you to trust me," I say, slowing down long enough to put on my most trusting expression.

"I have your word?" He hedges, narrowing his eyes.

"My word," I swear.

"Then you can have the ruddy memory. I certainly don't want it anymore," he mutters, pulling a crystal vial out of his robes and putting his wand tip to his forehead.

Slughorn concentrates for a minute, pulling the delicate memory out of his temple and places the silvery thread in the vial.

"Here, then. I hope this help..," he says, cutting off when I snatch the vial from his sweaty fingers, shove it in my pocket and race out of the room.

"Thanks" I shout over my shoulder, not looking where I am going, and before I can pull my head around, I connect with a solid object and find myself sprawled on the stone floor.

"Watch where you are going, Potter!" Snape snarls, reaching his hand down to wrench me up by my collar. "What are you doing, racing through my dungeons this close to curfew?" He asks suspiciously.

"I was speaking with Professor Slughorn, sir," I reply with a cringe. Of course, the absolute last person I wish to speak to would come around right when I was finally not thinking about him.

"Ah, yes. You two are getting along splendidly, I hear," he sneers, looking a bit ill at the thought of anyone being close to Slughorn. "You always loved being acknowledged."

"If that's what you like to tell yourself, Sir. If you'll excuse me, I need to get back to Gryffindor Tower," I say rebelliously, but as politely as possible.

"Actually, Mr. Potter, I need to speak with you. Come with me to my office," he demands with a smirk. Briefly, I think about simply fleeing as quickly as I can before he can insist again but instead I walk obediently behind him as he strides towards his office, attempting vainly to keep my breathing under control.

As we pass through the door to Snape's outer office, the door slams shut followed by the faint humming of a silencing spell being activated. Snape is standing very close, looking at me like I'm a small lab specimen that he has to dissect. Oh, jolly good, its time to talk about my little stunt this morning.

"You wanted to speak to me, Professor?" I prod, my voice unnaturally loud in the cavernous room.

"Obviously, Potter. I would like for you to explain to me what you were ranting about this morning. If you even think about lying, I will know," he purrs, smirking unpleasantly.

"About being afraid?" I ask with a tentative smile. Of course, I already expected the low growl so when it came spitting out of his throat like a swarm of angry bees, I was prepared.

"NO! And if I have to explain to you what it is I want you to tell me, I will stick you in detention for the rest of term," he snarls, his top lip curling.

"I'm almost positive that if I tell you then I'll be in detention for the rest of term anyway, so either way I see no improvement," I whinge, feeling a great pressure on my chest. Oh god, he isn't going to have to stick my in detention… there won't be enough left of me to serve any detentions.

Snape sighs irritably, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave off a headache. "I'm sure it can't be that bad, Potter. Just tell me and get it over with so I don't have to look at you anymore."

"Would you mind if I asked you a question first, sir?" I ask in a very small voice. No use in trying to be brave when I actually want him to talk to me for once.

"Oh for Merlin's sake! Fine, I'll answer your question if you agree to tell me what you think you know," he replies in exasperation, leaning back against his desk.

"Deal," I sigh out, barely able to contain my shaking. Please don't let him kill me. "Are you The Half-Blood Prince?"

Snape is still for such a long time that by the time he blinked again I was so relieved that I almost hugged him. He blinks rapidly, still absolutely silent and stands up straight. I'm not dead yet so I suppose that it's safe to take a breath. Please, just say something! For the love of god, _say something!_

"Yes," he replies stiffly, his face not giving anything away. If asked, I would say that he was so shocked that he was incapable of more than that one word.

"That's what I know," I say softly, watching his face for any sign that he's about to go for his wand.

"How?" He grits the word out past clenched teeth, although somehow not looking angry.

"I didn't think I got a good enough score to get into N.E.W.T Potions so I didn't buy any supplies this year so when I actually got to take the class, Slughorn told me to grab a spare book from the supply cupboard and it was in there. I wrote to Flourish and Blott's and got a new book but I learned so much from The pr – er… it that I took the cover off the new one and put it on the old one so that I could keep the book," I explain hurriedly, trying to get the story out before he started yelling.

"Well, that explains your sudden knack for Potions. Why it had to be you, I'll never know. Why were you so distressed, then, to discover I was the previous owner?" He asks, finally finding his tongue.

"Because you _hate_ me. I wanted so much to –" I explode, cutting myself off at the last possible moment to preserve what remains of my dignity. My mouth snaps shut with an audible click and I purse my lips to stave off any further humiliation.

"Go on," he insists, curious now. His eyebrow is arched and he looks generally interested in what I was about to say. In fact, the scowl is no where to be seen and he is running a long finger over his bottom lip, looking his rather youthful 36 for the first time I can remember.

"Listen, the Prince was my friend and I was so excited to find out who he was so that I could – so I could know him better, find out what happened to him, and I know you'll never sit down with me and be civil enough to talk about anything at all. So, yeah, I was very distraught… Sir," I babble desperately, hoping that I actually made enough sense for Snape to decipher my intentions.

"Your friend? How do you mean?" He asks, leaning forward in rapt attention as though the entire concept is foreign to him. It probably is. You don't create spells for enemies unless you have a great many said enemies.

"I'd rather not say, sir," I mumble tiredly, slumping forward against the back of the chair in front of the desk.

"Why not? It can't be that bad," he counters, smirking slightly. Pillock.

"I read that book every day, I slept with it a few times and I actually stroked the bloody pages and if you laugh at me, by Merlin, I will hex you," I shoot back in humiliation, watching the corner of his mouth twitch at least five times.

"I see," - another twitch - "Slept with it, you say?" – twitch, twitch – "Well, I cant mock you too much considering I did the same a time or two," he says with quite a lot of pauses to get himself under control, smirking constantly.

"Stuff it, you prat. Shouldn't you just– Sorry! I, er… I didn't mean -," I start only to freeze up in terror. Holy Merlin, I just called Professor Snape a prat. I'm going to be chopping disgusting things until June.

"Oh, _relax. _Consider this conversation off the record," he says tiredly, rolling his eyes and waving his hand as though to clear the insult from between us. I take another breath.

"So, I'm thinking that you should be rather happy with yourself for inciting such interest in one such as me. There really isn't any need for detentions of any kind, wouldn't you say?" I suggest with a bright smile, hoping beyond hope that I can inspire this… subdued Snape to show mercy.

"No detentions, Mr. Potter. I just have one question for you and then you can go," he drawls, rolling his eyes at my brilliant grin. His voice sounds serious, so I try to look as mature as I can so I don't end up looking like a moron, grinning away, while he's saying something important.

"Sounds fair," I agree softly.

"Now, I know what you were capable of on your own power, seeing as how I had you in my class for five exceedingly witless years. Though, this year, I am sure that with the help of my old text book you were able to achieve great results, my question to you is how great," he says, staring at me unflinchingly.

It takes me a moment to understand what he's asking. Merlin, does he always have to talk in riddles? Can't he just say 'What is your Potions grade, Potter?' instead of making me figure out what each sentence could possibly mean? It's like the man is incapable of making himself clear. Although, in his defence, years of being a double agent might do that to a bloke.

"My Potions grade? Last week I had an Outstanding. Why?" I say a bit defensively. I may not be a genius like him but it's almost impossible to not do well with the Prince whispering secrets in my ear.

"I see. That's a shame," he sighs, looking disgruntled.

"Why? That's the highest grade one can get! I happen to think I'm doing great!" I exclaim, frowning incomprehensively.

"Well spotted, Potter. An O _is_ the highest grade you can receive. The problem is that you have risen to such a great height that it would seem… odd for you to return to your previous marks as soon as I take my book away from you," he replies in the same, bored tone.

"Take it... – NO! You can't! It's not just a book to me, Professor! It's… important. I don't care about my grade, but I need that book!" I shout, outraged, backing slowly towards the door as though to make a run for it.

No, no, no, no, no, no. This is absolutely not happening! I can't lose my book, I just can't! It's bad enough that the man whom I have been admiring all these months is Snape, a man who hates me so much that there is no chance of ever sitting down and talking about his life, my life and everything in between, but to have my friend ripped from me this way is unbearable.

"Mr. Potter, I assure you that I can. Not only is it _my _book but leaving it in your possession is irresponsible of me. It may surprise you to know that, in my youth, I was less than moral. I am sure that it will also surprise you to know that several of the spells inside that book might be greatly frowned upon by the majority of the facility when you start flailing them about like an uneducated Longbottom," he stated blankly, raising a sardonic eyebrow.

"Just because they're in the book doesn't mean that I am going to use them! I can be responsible!" I wail desperately.

"Really Potter? Remember your first year when you faced two different manifestations of The Dark Lord without ever seeking out the assistance of an adult? Or how about you second year in which you faced not only a Basilisk but yet another manifestation of The Dark Lord, also without telling anyone where you were going or with whom? Or maybe you would prefer to think of your third year when once again you ran off, half-cocked, to face an escaped convict and almost got eaten by a werewolf instead. Or perhaps even fourth year where you forced your company upon a masquerading Death Eater everyday and didn't find it worth mentioning that there was a peculiar trunk that whimpered and screamed for help. Hmm, yes, very responsible track record indeed, Potter," he blurts, not even concerned with the rather human function of breathing.

Goodness, he seems to be really gearing up into an involved rant. He must have been holding on to that for a long while, considering that after each one of these events, I had to be rescued by him. Damn, I might owe him an apology after all.

"Yes, well. It all sounds terrible when you put it like that! I did what I had to do and I got the job done just fine," I say petulantly. I'm grasping at straws and I know it but really, this is still Snape and he just has a way of getting right under my skin.

"I wasn't aware there was another way of putting it. You are an underage, undisciplined wizard who waltzes into absurd situations without any plan or advantage to fight the most powerful dark wizard of our time. Not to mention that your reinforcements in these aforementioned situations were two equally ignorant and unskilled children that barely ever helped you and instead just put themselves in great danger and hampered you further. Sounds a smidge irresponsible to me," he spits, shoving his face right up into mine and glaring at me ferociously.

"Your right," I murmur softly, not unlocking our eyes.

"Don't even think abou – what?" he roars, only to stop short in amazement.

"Your right about all of it. I'm not nearly as prepared as I should be by now if I'm expected to face Vold – He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named sometime soon, I didn't try hard enough in Occlumency and I do run off willy-nilly without asking anyone for help," I say forlornly, feeling very depleted all of a sudden.

It takes Snape a few minutes to compose a reply. He stares at me, blinking rapidly as though he can't believe what he just heard. Not that I blame him for being shocked seeing as how I have never gone out of my way to play into his favour, never apologized for my behaviour that directly effected him. I certainly never treated him with any respect… but _come on! _ It's Snape!

"Well, at least you've seen the error of your ways," he says slowly, still looking utterly bewildered. "Come here," he orders sharply, as though to recover his authority further.

I walk to him in confusion, and am shocked further when he grabs my right forearm and tugs it away from my body. Opening my mouth to ask what the bloody hell he thinks he's doing, I let out a hiss instead as his cool fingers burrow into my school robe, brushing against my stomach, and retreating just as quickly as they came.

"What – ?" I bleat lamely, blinking up at his face. So very close, I could almost reach up on to my tiptoes and…

"You will be here everyday straight after dinner. Am I clear?" He demands, standing up to his full height and looking down his nose at me.

I look down at the hand that just came from _inside my robes _only to see the battered copy of Advanced Potion-Making dangling piteously from his fingers. I squawk indignantly, making a move to grab it back but stop short at the last minute when he puts it behind his back.

"Tomorrow after dinner, Potter. Do not be late," he says with a smirk, tucking the Prince's book into one of the many folds in his robes. Bollocks.

With one last desperate glance at my lovely book, I trudge to the door and make my way to Dumbledore's office for an exhausting exchange of information.

!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!

In my life, I have had some really horrendous days. For instance, days I had an awkward run in with Lord Voldemort are absolutely at the top of the list, but I reckon today is in the top ten. And it's not even three o'clock.

After an insanely long night with first Snape and then Dumbledore, I got a grand total of three hours of sleep combined with the constant anxiety about my meeting with Snape tonight come together to create a very foul tempered Harry Potter.

Although I attempted, at first, to hide my testiness, by ten o'clock I realized that it was pointless and gave it up as a bad job. Hermione is currently so angry with me that she won't even look in my direction and Ron won't come anywhere near me at present. Apparently my issues are nothing compared to the melodrama those two carry on, because Voldemort is certainly not prancing around with pieces of his soul missing! GAH!

Potions was an utter disaster, comprising everything from minor spills all the way to a vile explosion that covered every student within a ten foot range in blue sludge. Slughorn was not pleased nor were the seven students who had to be late to their next class because they had to go change or risk carrying on through their day covered in slime. Combining my absolute lack of talent and the despairing absence of the Prince's book was the worst idea I've had all year.

"Mr. Potter! You have managed to transfigure your mouse into a daisy," Professor McGonagall says, looking over my shoulder.

"Brilliant," I reply as energetic as possible. I don't know how I even knew what the assignment was, but I think I deserve a pat on the –

"The assignment was to transfigure the mouse into a house cat," she barks, looking none too pleased. Oh good, now my Head of House is angry at me.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I'm just not at my best today," I say, hoping to appeal to her nonexistent nurturing side.

"Well, I can certainly see that," she huffs irritably. "If you are prepared to take no marks for the day, then you may return to your dormitory and sort yourself out."

"Thank you, Professor. Sorry for this," I stammer, waving vaguely at the shivering daisy on the desk in front of me. McGonagall huffs again, pointing me out the door and pursing her lips.

Everyone's eyes turn to me as I make my way down the rows and out the door. Of course it's not bad enough to be having a terrible day, but the entire world needs to watch the decline of The Chosen One. Bollocks.

The dormitory is empty when I get there, the sounds of my footsteps echoing loudly in the deserted space. The house elves have already been through, changing sheets and taking dirty laundry, so the bedding is cool and refreshing against my overheated skin.

Oh Merlin, how do I always get myself into these things? I am so nervous and _angry _about this wretched meeting with Snape tonight that I can't eat properly. What in Godric's name possessed me to believe that I could escape detention for having Snape's book? I just can't understand why I fell for it. Every shred of common sense told me not to tell him, he'll just use it as another excuse to punish me for something I didn't even know about. I mean, how was I supposed to know that it was Snape's book? It's not like he had his ruddy name engraved on it, for god's sake. No, it was a vague self-made title without even a scrap of evidence to back up any research.

Anger, I'm sad to say, is not all I feel towards Snape at the moment. I feel that invisible tether that tied me to the Prince's book transfer on to Snape as though it was there all along. Every time someone mentions him, I can't help but tune in to see what they say, to take notice of every little scrap of news about what he's doing. It's utterly pathetic, mewling after him like a lovesick puppy. God, I wonder what he would say if he knew that I'm thinking these things? Laugh, I imagine, and then throw me out on my ear.

Class must be over now and I still have no explanation for my little episode in Transfiguration nor can I tell them why I have been so terrible today. Maybe they'll just believe that its stress from the war.

Ron and the others come galumphing into the dorm, talking animatedly about the new Wicked Sisters song but manage to hush themselves when they see me sitting up on my bed. That's always a great sign.

"Oi, there you are! Why'd you leave class?" Seamus blurts, completely unaware that this is supposed to be a quiet time.

"I felt ill, so I asked McGonagall if I could lie down. Long night, I suppose," I lie, feeling five sets of eyes boring into me.

"Clear off, you lot. I'll sort him," Ron shouts, whooshing his arms to sweep them out of the room. Rather nice of him, I have to say. Oh, Ron is going to throw an absolute fit when I tell him I lost the Prince's book… and the key to our passing grades.

"So what happened, really?" He asked, plopping himself down next to me. I think he already suspected something bad has happened, and that it very well could involve him in some way shape or form.

"Well Ron, it has completely hit the fan," I respond nice and frankly. No point in avoiding it now.

The look on his face initially shows massive confusion, followed swiftly with another bout of confusion. "What fan?" Oh. Right. He doesn't know any of the muggle phrases.

"Oh, for – I think it's safe to say that we will never see the Prince's book ever again," I explain slowly, giving him time to absorb the devastating news.

Ron's shoulders slump and his face falls into a mask of agony. "Now we'll never pass potions," he whines, looking longingly towards the grove where I kept the book hidden under the mattress.

"Wait! How the bloody hell did you lose it when you never take your eyes off it?" He exclaims, waving his arms hither and thither.

"Snape took it, said that it was cheating to use it," I mumble, feeling a bit guilty about the lie but unable to let loose the fact that the person who I have been obsessed with for months turned out to be none other than The Greasy Git himself.

"Course it would have to be that overgrown bat." Ron says, obviously talking to himself because he did not even look at me. I figure that I am completely in the clear since he hasn't sworn revenge against Snape nor has he started shouting at me. Then he looks at me.

"How'd he find out about the book, anyway?" He asks, sadly clearheaded again.

"He called it a random search for contraband," I blurt sadly, hoping that Ron would write it off as Snape being Snape and stop asking me questions that I will just end up lying about anyways.

"So he just took it from you and told you to go away," he hedges, clearly hoping that nothing else, such as a massive loss of house points, followed.

"No. I have detention with him after dinner tonight. And probably the rest of term…" I sigh, trying to look as forlorn as I should be. Don't look excited about detention with Snape; everyone will think you've gone spare.

"Rough gig, mate. Let's go off to dinner then before you're late for your date with the great big bat of Hogwarts." He blurts out with a little laugh. I too have to laugh about the idea of me having a date with Professor Snape. Probably not in the same way Ron did.

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Author's Note: Here's the second installment – I really hope you all are enjoying it! PLEASE REVIEW! I need them to survive!

Oceans of Love,

~Kitty


	3. Chapter 3

An Ever-Fixed Mark

Pairing: Snarry

Rating: MA

Summary: Harry is determined to discover the identity of his Half-Blood Prince. 1st person, Harry's POV.

Authors Note: A huge, heart felt thank you to Serpenscript, Plot doctor! I couldn't have done it without her support.

Disclaimer: The characters within are not mine and I am not making any money from this.

**A Ever-Fixed mark**

By: Kitty

The stones clack under my feet as I amble down to the dungeons. My whole body is wound tight, vibrating like a live wire. I can feel my hands shaking, whether in anger or fear, I don't know, and I hastily shove them in my pockets. To think that I thought for one, shining second that the greasy bat could be nice and keep his word is about the dumbest thing I have ever done. Sure, I could have just walked away and never had to surrender my lovely book, but of course I did the noble thing and faced the giant snake with dignity… but I found myself bookless and punished all at the same time… punished for doing my homework.

Then, on top of all that, I have Snape's detention to contend with. It's not as though he would just assign the detention with Filch or even McGonagall because I am sure he wants to see the ruin and humiliation of James Potter's son first hand. Bastard.

The corridors twist and turn oddly in the dungeon, actively trying to confuse the walker into thinking they're going the right way only to find they've arrived at a broom cupboard. I dearly hope that the door I spot looming in the distance is in fact Snape's office and not a trick linen cabinet. At least I know what to expect with this detention. Snape will make me chop and clean something horrible and then snip about my technique the entire time before telling me how utterly worthless I am and dismissing me. No fan mail to reply to, no awful scars cleaved into my skin by a horrendous, pink toad women. Just Snape and his unfailing sarcasm and billowing robes and raised eyebrow and smirking mouth… Stop.

The door is indeed Snape's office, I can see the scored wood from countless students prepared to stand all night outside of his door and pound away until he gave them a suitable grade. Poor buggers, I bet none of them got any sleep those nights nor did they manage to raise their grade one point… although I'm sure they managed to lose a few house points along the way. By a few I mean all of them. I almost get the mental image of an enraged Hermione pounding at the door due to her first Exceeds Expectations and Snape right behind the door smirking away as he slams the solid oak in her face with a resounding 'two hundred points from Gryffindor' echoing behind him.

As though life and fantasy have melded together seamlessly, I see Snape looming menacingly from his office, long fingers gripped tightly on the door frame.

"Your late, Potter. Why am I not surprised?" He snarls, smirking gleefully at the possibility of yet more detentions to throw at me. Glorious.

"I'm sorry, Sir. There was a small issue with the hallways… they seem not to like me," I explain hastily before he can snarl at me again and just be miserable to be around for the rest of the night. Which, of course, is not terribly different than usual but it would be nice if there could maybe be a bit of conversation that didn't revolve around how mentally challenged I am.

"I can't imagine anyone or anything liking you, but that doesn't stop the legion of admirers that pant after you. My dungeons, at least, are immune to your charms. Now, get inside so that we can actually get some work done tonight," he says, ushering me in the office and slamming the door behind me.

"Yes, Sir." I sigh, shuffling through the doorway and standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

"Sit down and pay attention," he barks, elegantly lowering himself into the plush chair behind his desk. I plop rather unceremoniously into the hard, wood chair placed in perfect glowering range from his seat. I can't help but sigh again in anticipation of the disgusting thing I will be forced to dissect, chop, or otherwise mangle tonight before I can finally get some sleep.

"Take out a quill and a stack of parchment," he demands, looking bored already. Oh bollocks. In six years, Snape has never once required me to bring anything at all to my detentions. Of all the sodding times for him to start wanting me to write lines –

"My things are back in Gryffindor tower, Professor," I sigh, wishing the earth would open up and swallow me before Snape has time to yell at me. I was really hoping to make progress with him tonight, despite the formal detention situation.

"Why would you not bring anything to this lesson?" He says very slowly, looking very much like he wants to throttle me. Well, the fact that I'm not currently being throttled speaks a lot for the restraint he must be showing.

"Lesson?" I reply, completely befuddled. What in Godric's name is he talking about? Lesson? This _is_ a detention, right? Why else would Snape demand that I come to his office after dinner?

"Are you really this dense?" He asks, raising his face as though to ask for patience.

"I must be," I mutter miserably, not daring to look at his face. I am just doing a fantastic job making him see how I can actually contribute something intelligent to a conversation.

"You are here because without intervention you will fail your subsequent Potions classes," he drawls, his voice void of emotions again now that the initial anger had faded. His eyes, though, were positively glowing in the candlelit office. The inky black pools churning and sparking at me, liquid obsidian burning through me and making a trail of electricity shoot up my spine. How have I never noticed how… enticing his eyes could be?

"Intervention, right. Wait. What?" I stutter, earning yet another glare. I should really start paying closer attention before be just kicks me out and never speaks to me outside of class again.

"Intervention, Potter. It's a noun, meaning simply the act of intervening, especially a deliberate entry into a situation or dispute in order to influence events or prevent undesirable consequences. Get it?" he snarls, glaring full force now. Ok, now he's even angrier and you'll never get him to talk tonight. God, did he just quote a dictionary? What a smart ass.

"Yes, sir. I meant what sort of intervention," I reply as politely as I possibly can.

"The sort where you sit here every day after dinner and pay attention while I attempt to cram your head full of years worth of knowledge," he explains heatedly, looking exasperated already. Not a good sign that he's fed up this soon into the conversation.

"You're going to tutor me?" I shout excitedly, half-standing from my chair in an aborted manoeuvre that might have ended with me pounce-hugging Professor Snape. Geez, try a little control on for size!

"Running scared already, Potter?" He mocks, looking rather pleased by his assumption that I was upset by this development. Oh, if he only knew how emphatically not upset I actually am.

"Running? I'd have to be absolutely mad to run from an opportunity like this! I can't believe it! This is…I'm just so… Thank you!" I gush, overwhelmed, doing a little arm pump to emphasize my absolute elation. If I thought I wouldn't get hexed, I would be doing a jig around his office. I'm sure my smile must be splitting my face in two, and that I look absolutely ridiculous but I can't be bothered to care. Snape is going to tutor me!

Merlin's shorts, Snape is going to tutor me; The Half-Blood Prince is going to tutor me! Oh Merlin, this day is simply amazing. I don't even know where to begin to express my gratitude, not that he would think it was sincere even if I did manage to pull myself together enough to thank him properly.

"I'm just thrilled to have your cooperation on this. Now, if you are sufficiently informed, can we please begin?" He says dryly, raising one thin brow in mock concern. I nod rapidly, eyes wide with anticipation and smiling so widely that my cheeks are beginning to hurt.

"Excellent. We'll begin at seven each night and continue until we have finished with the evenings goals. For instance, tonight we will be working on the Elixir to Induce Euphoria, Blood-Replenishing Potion and Burn-Healing Paste. The lab is through here," he explains, gesturing briefly to a doorway that I had never noticed before.

"Sir, what about the curfew?" I ask, dreading the consequences should I be caught not returning to bed on time, every night.

"I wouldn't worry, Potter. I'm sure Professor McGonagall can't be bothered to do bed checks until one. I shall be sure to have you seen by the appropriate people in your dormitory," he says nonchalantly, barely glancing in my direction as we make our way through the doorway and into a narrow corridor that opens up into a large Potions lab.

Does Snape really know what time McGonagall does her checks? Why would he be telling me how to get around being punished? Maybe he doesn't have permission from anyone at all to be giving me these lessons. I guess nobody would approve of the fact that I'll be secreted down here until the wee hours of the morning, in the Slytherin dungeons, having highly illegal lessons with Snape who isn't even supposed to be helping me at all. Not to mention the fact that Snape said that he'd make sure that I'm seen by the right people in the dorm for checks, not that I'd be staying there long enough to sleep.

Since the rush of excitement has passed, I can't help but wonder why on earth Snape is doing this. That's not to say that I'm ungrateful or even the slightest bit less than thrilled to have private Potions lessons from The Half-Blood Prince himself, but it just seems strange to me that Snape would invite his least favorite student to partake of his immense knowledge. Not to mention the fact that I never learned half as much from Snape as I did from the Prince which is completely mental because they are the same person.

"Potter, are you listening to a word I'm saying?" Snape frowns, whirling around to glare at me. I gulp again and shake my head mutely. Brilliant start, Potter.

"Of course not. Well, spit it out so we can actually get some work done," he finishes crossly, scowling deeply at me.

"Why are you doing this? It's obviously not because you care about my Potions grade and certainly not due to our fantastic history with private lessons. So, why?" I blurt, probably speaking too fast for him to understand, but if I didn't get it out fast, it would never get said.

"I am doing this because very soon you will need to know things, things that a normal sixteen year old boy should never have to know… things that fully trained wizards are too frightened to even dream about. You will have to know these things to stay alive in order to kill a wizard that people can't even bring themselves to speak of except in whispers," he hisses, clearly using every molecule of intimidation in order to get me to understand. I really wish I did.

"You may think I'm the most worthless child to ever sully Hogwarts' halls, but I am not completely brainless. I know that Dumbledore knows nothing about these lessons; otherwise we wouldn't be hidden away down here, surrounded by enough wards to keep Merlin himself out. I also know that you _loathe _me and nothing I could have possibly done this year would be enough to convince you to give me private lessons. I need to know what you know that makes you think for one second that this is a good idea," I exclaim, flailing my arms about hither and thither, wholly surprised that I managed not to swat him in the face during my rather hysterical rant.

"I will only tell you that very soon, you will be on your own and you will need every ounce of cunning, skill and intelligence you can possibly absorb. I intend to prepare you for the worst of the challenges that you will face before I am no longer able to do so," he growls out, his normally pallid face turning even paler.

"I'm not going to get any more than that out of you, am I?" I sigh, pouting slightly in disappointment.

"No so don't ask. What you can do, however, is come over here and attempt to prepare an Elixir to Induce Euphoria before I drop dead of old age," Snape drawls, obviously reaching the end of his patience.

"Of course, sir. Shall I just guess what to put in it, or is there some sort of guide you want me to follow?" I snap back, angry despite every effort to remain unaffected. I just can't understand why everyone thinks I'm a big baby who shouldn't be told important information!

"Bite your tongue, boy," he snarls halfheartedly. "If you would stop talking long enough to open your eyes, you'll see that I have laid everything out for you on the table. Just pour the infused Nettle oil in the cauldron and light a fire underneath," He instructs, the swishing of his robes moving closer as I attempt to keep my eyes on the workspace in front of me.

"Yes, sir," I sigh, following his instructions as well as I'm capable.

"Now," he purrs, standing entirely too close to me, so close that I can feel the whisper of his robes against the back of my legs. Bollocks, now is not the time to remember that very detailed dream about the Prince giving me 'private lessons'. "If you do everything I say, you will find yourself with a useable batch of the Elixir."

"What next?" I rasp, feeling each and every place that his clothing is touching me as though it were a white hot brand on my skin.

"Let the oil simmer while you grind the moonstone into a fine powder," he purrs again and I can feel his breath caress my ear with each word and I think I'm going to embarrass myself by moaning if he doesn't back up soon. "Then, you will slice the Murtlap tentacles into one-quarter inch slices."

Right, there are potions to make and Snapes to not molest. God, why am I thinking about molesting him at all? It's Snape, for Merlin's sake! It's not as though a few lessons will make him stop hating me… not that I would actually care one way or another because I definitely hate him no matter what he thinks. Right?

I know that Snape is a different animal completely than my Prince. Obviously, life and experiences have conspired to shape the smart, witty, slightly rude teenager I was so enraptured by into this dark, sarcastic, entirely unpleasant man. As I grind the Moonstone into a very fine powder, per Snape's demand, I can't help but think that it's really not his fault at all that he turned out how he did. I mean, who knows what sort of horrors he's had to live through while serving as a Death Eater… obviously it was bad enough to go to Dumbledore and beg sanctuary in return for information.

"Potter! Add the Powdered Moonstone!" Snape growls, flicking the side of my head to get my attention. Right, Snape is trying to teach my to make a potion, not giving me time to rationalize the teenager and the man. Not that they're really that different….no. Focus.

"Sorry Professor," I say, tipping the mortar over the cauldron and watching as the Moonstone slides on the top of Nettle Oil. Steady on, Potter. You need to impress him this time or else he might think this entire effort isn't worth his time and write it off as a bad job. I guess I did it correctly because he nods slightly and moves on.

"Stir the base slowly, six times counter clockwise and rest the stirring rod against the side of the cauldron," he says firmly, watching avidly as I stir the two ingredients together. "Good. Now begin slicing, you have only five minutes to perfect the slices before you must add them; any longer and you'll have to begin again."

Taking up the knife, I grab one large Murltap tentacle and place it on the cutting board lying in front of the cauldron. Holding the silver blade firmly, I begin to slice the end off the tentacle and discard it before I start on the stock of the plant. I'm not even three slices in before he grabs my wrist and sighs deeply. I wonder what I did wrong this time.

"For Merlin's sake! I said the tentacles need to be sliced in one-quarter inch pieces." he says, keeping a firm hold on my wrist.

"Um, is that not what I'm doing?" I ask softly, kicking myself for messing up so early.

"No, Potter, that is not what you're doing. Those are one-half inch slices, and not entirely good ones at that. Do you know the difference between one-half and one-fourth?" He asks, sounding genuinely interested in the answer. Well, I can't blame him for asking, considering that he thinks I am the most uneducated person to ever be admitted to Hogwarts.

"Yes, sir. I guess my estimation was off," I reply, hoping to keep my voice from sounding irritated.

"Cut the slices you already have directly in two. Potions must be prepared exactly as they are written, or you will find yourself with a cauldron full of sludge," he says, and I can hear an undercurrent of amusement, probably directed towards the memory of my many failed potions, and he releases my wrist. The skin tingles strangely as his fingers slide away from me to rest beside me on the table. Don't think about it, or you'll balls it up again.

"Like this?" I ask, splitting the incorrect slices into two equal parts. Yes, it's possible that I am looking for a little positive reinforcement but surely there's nothing wrong with that.

"Yes, and you will need six properly prepared slices for the potion, discard the rest," he explains, sighing under his breath as though he knew all along what I was after... which is fine with me as long as the encouragement keeps coming because this might just be the first potion with Snape that I've reached the ten minute mark without making the entire classroom fill with smoke or cover classmates with disgusting slime. Hurrah!

"And now I add them?" I hedge, hoping I did the slices right this time. I apparently did because Snape nods again. That's two approving gestures from Snape in one night and for the first time all night, I believe that these lessons might work out after all.

I grasp the cutting board and slide the tentacle pieces into the brew. The potion hisses and pops once before settling again. Looking back at Snape, he nods at me and continues to instruct me about the proper procedure for creating the perfect Elixir to Induce Euphoria.

The evening is going well, with Snape instructing calmly and mostly without scathing comments while I actually craft successful potions without blowing anything up. Really, I wouldn't have thought that I could actually enjoy brewing potions with Snape, but I find myself having fun despite any misgivings. He is mostly quiet while I ramble insensibly about things in my life but despite all the bored sighs he lets out, he is actually listening to me. That feels a lot better than I thought it would; having someone listening to what I have to say without telling me what a stupid child I am.

The Elixir turned out perfect (although I find it hard to believe that anyone could do poorly with Snape giving detailed instructions right in their ear) and I think I even managed to impress him with my lack of explosions. I found the Blood-Replenishing potion to be a bit more challenging due to the elaborate stirring maneuver required. Even with Snape's explicit directions, and multiple form corrections, I still only managed to make a passable attempt at the complicated potion. Snape seemed to think it was a decent attempt though, because he didn't shout at all, just simply told me we would try again tomorrow.

So it is with little shock that I find that the hour has grown late and McGonagall is due to check beds in a half hour. Not good. There is no possible way that I can drag myself all the way from the dungeons to Gryffindor Tower without getting caught by Filch, change into my night pants and look like I've been there all along before my Head of House comes in. Bollocks.

"Sir, I think I'm going to need you to do a Disillusionment Charm on me so that I can get back to my dorm before McGonagall does her checks," I suggest politely, hoping to keep the casual feeling to the evening without insulting him somehow. Merlin knows the man is temperamental enough without me adding fuel to the fire.

"Nonsense, you shall simply take the secondary stairs up to the painting of Gillert the Goon and then proceed to your bed," he replies, looking very smug.

"Secondary staircase? There is no secondary staircase, Professor," I bleat, looking about as confused as I feel. Certainly I haven't missed staircase to Gryffindor Tower on both the Marauder's Map and on foot… right? And really, even if I had, that doesn't mean that Snape would know the first thing about getting to the Gryffindor Common Room; I've always been a bit shocked that he even knew where it is, let alone how to get there so fast the minute he gets wind that a student is out of bed past curfew.

"Of course there is a secondary staircase, you foolish boy. How do you imagine that the faculty gets around without every student in the school finding out about their personal affairs?" Snape snips, still smirking away as though he just told me the secret to the universe. Bastard sure has a way to rub it in, doesn't he?

"Oh, well I suppose I've never given my Professor's social calendar that much thought," I reply, unable to keep the sarcasm at bay with him smirking for England over there.

"Obviously, or else your feeble excuse for a brain might simply implode with the knowledge that teachers have something else to do besides attempt to interest you in subjects you no doubt have no wish to know," he growls out, looking a little breathless at the end of his tirade.

"Couldn't you just tell me how to access the staircase without going into an hour long rant about the inadequacies of every student you have ever taught?" I snip back, frowning at the abrupt change in Snape's attitude. We've been doing so well, too!

"Certainly. The portrait of Wendelin the Weird hangs directly across from the statue of Wilfred the Wistful. If you speak the password correctly, you will be admitted to the staircase without any fuss," he explains, sounding neutral again now that he realized by patience for gentle banter has passed. Pity.

"And what is the password, sir?" I ask with a sigh, clearly not doing well in the game he must be playing with me. If I only knew what the game was… or the rules for that matter, I'm sure that I could do much better at it.

"Ashwinder eggs," he answers, heaving himself into one of the stools stationed by the table.

"Thanks. When do you want me back to work on the Burn-Healing Paste?" I ask, attempting to look interested. After all, he did mention that he hates teaching people who show no interest in the subject he's teaching… so it would only be natural for me to want him to see that I actually want to learn from him lest I be banished from his private lab, never to return again.

For some reason, the idea of never coming back here causes a strange weight to settle on my chest and for a moment I can't breath right just thinking about it. To see his cold, dark eyes scanning me disinterestedly as I fail to impress him in DADA, as though this entire night where he was actually nice to me never happened, would be agony.

"I believe it should be safe to return around two o'clock," he mutters, already tidying up the lab for the next round. I find myself looking forward to sneaking back to his office in the middle of the night, although in my mind I'm not returning to make potions. God, why can't I stop thinking about Snape naked? It's not only absurd but entirely impossible! No matter what odd, convoluted thoughts I'm having lately, there is no way that Snape would even look twice at me… not that I care because I certainly would never make a move on him.

"See you then, Professor," I squeak, hoping beyond hope that he was unable to tell the timber of my thoughts just from looking at my face. God, wouldn't that be absolutely mortifying? I can only imagine the things he would say to me should he find out.

I begin wandering down random hallways, not completely knowing which way was the correct way to go. I should have thought to ask Snape about that but I will scratch that down as a lesson learned. 'Always ask before you go wandering throughout magical moving hallways'.

I have to whip out my wand and cast a hasty '_Lumos_' to actually see which way I was going and in my mind that is certainly a bad sign. I feel like I'm in one those Muggle movies Dudley watches randomly and for some reason last summer kept inviting me to watch with him; you know the ones where the girls like Hermione run around in dark alleys and end up on the wrong end of some freak's butcher knife. Let us simply hope that no stray Death Eaters (or Malfoy) pop out with nasty cutlery and make minced pie out of my innards.

These hallways are beginning to seem more and more like a maze as the corridors twist and curl awkwardly before my eyes. I can't help but think that this could have all been an elaborate prank by Snape to get me caught out of bed at 12:30 just so that Gryffindor will lose a spectacular amount of points. Boy, that would be an amazing prank; a prank that even the Weasley twins would envy and emulate… if I ever had the guts to tell them I had gotten pranked by a 30 something year old Slytherin.

Finally I see the statue. Well at least that part wasn't a prank. I slowly approach the portrait directly across from it and for some reason the thought arises in my head that it very well could refuse me entrance, somehow knowing that I am not a faculty member and I should not rightly know the password.

Wendelin the Weird gazes solemnly at me, shifting her weight from foot to foot, waiting silently for me to invoke the correct phrase to open the supposed secret staircase. I smile at her and say 'Ashwinder Eggs' as confidently as I am able under the circumstances. She nods, squinting her eyes at me as though to figure out who the hell I am, but reveals the doorway regardless.

The wall disintegrates into a scantly lit staircase, its spiral curving sharply from the landing and going very far up. I shrug, grip my wand tightly, and step into the newly revealed space. Immediately after my foot clears the first stair, the passage way closes with a snap and the area is plunged into total darkness, save my piteous _Lumos_. But since I'm already on the first stair, with no way to retreat, I decide to pluck on.

Sooner than I thought I would, I found myself deposited in front of the portrait of Gillert the Goon, directly across from the Gryffindor Common Room. The idea that I traveled from the dungeons all the way up to the seventh floor within twenty or so steps is too baffling to examine too closely and I simply write it off as one of the many wonders of magic.

The Fat Lady is snoring lightly in her frame, but her eyes snap open as I approach. "Out of bed late, child," she admonishes not unkindly.

"I lost track of time in the library. I have a pass from Madam Pince," I explain with a smile, hoping she doesn't call my bluff.

"Oh, certainly dear. I know how N.E.W.T revisions can get. Password?" she says with a smile, waving her hand to open the door when I say the correct password for the correct hidden door. Goodness, if I could get away with it, I would write each password down for their corresponding doors to avoid future confusion.

A quick '_Tempus_' shows me that I have exactly three minutes to shove myself into my night pants and climb into bed. Working quickly, I slip out of my school uniform and into the soft cotton pants and crawl into bed just as I hear the dormitory door creak open. Shifting as though in sleep, I hang one leg outside the covers and pray to god that McGonagall doesn't look to closely at me. She doesn't. With a speedy head count, she turns swiftly and moves on to the other dorms for her nightly checks.

I breath out sharply, relieved beyond words that I haven't been caught and shuffle around until I have my regular pants and tee shirt on again. It just wouldn't do to show back up in Snape's lab in my embarrassingly over-sized sleep pants. It just wouldn't do at all.

By one forty-five, I'm anxious again; creeping silently out of the portrait door and across the hall to the secret passage. I walk down the stone steps, lost in thought, and find myself ten minutes early. I wonder if Snape would mind that I'm early or if he would be annoyed that I'm further trespassing upon his private time. Well, I refuse to stand around outside his office, just waiting for Mrs. Norris or Filch to come upon a random boy lurking outside Snape's private office so I push the door open with great trepidation only to see that the man is not at his desk. Lucky, that.

The doorway is just as dark and dank as it was this evening, but I know that way now and I make my way to the hidden lab almost silently. As I enter the room, I notice three things at once. One, Snape is brewing something that looks really involved. Two, he has shed his heavy teaching robe and rolled up the sleeves of his starched jacket to reveal his pale forearms and the dark, contrasting Morsmordre marring the marble-esque skin. Three, he is looking at me with the oddest expression; it's a though he doesn't know whether to be annoyed or amused.

"I know I'm early but I just wanted to make sure that I made it out of the dorm before Neville takes his two am piss," I ramble nervously, unnerved by the relentless obsidian gaze. I wonder if I have something on my face…Why else would he be looking at me like that?

"Mr. Potter, I see you have decided to make yourself comfortable," he observes and it takes me a moment to realize that he's referring to my casual attire. Oh well, it's not as though I could exactly pick out the most attractive outfit in my wardrobe in pitch darkness.

"Sorry, Sir. I was in a bit of a hurry to get out of there," I explain, grinning at him to portray good humor. I certainly know how awkward I look, decked out in Dudley's over-sized, ratty clothes but that doesn't mean that I can't find some humor in the situation.

"While it may puzzle me to no end that the darling of the Wizarding world dresses in no more than rags, we should really begin on the Burn-Healing Paste so that we may actually get some sleep," he snarks, smirking at my glare. Sometimes he really is a bastard; a dark, foreboding, commanding beautiful bastard. Stop. Focus.

"Yes, Sir," I reply almost eagerly, stepping over to the worktable and wait for the velvet voice to begin the instructions.

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Author's Note: Alright, this is all you get in one go! I just couldn't leave you all hanging like that. But, because of the lovely schedule I set up, you shall have another instalment next week - AS LONG AS I GET ENOUGH REVIEWS! Yes, I am resorting to bribery again and no I have no pride to sacrifice. So, PLEASE REVIEW!

Oceans of Love,

~Kitty


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